Deviant

“And you’re giving yours to Michael?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m going to give it to him, I swear.”

A wicked growl travels down the line and straight into my ear—my eyelids flutter closed. I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know what I’ve agreed to, but I feel relieved. So, so relieved. I’ve seen terminal patients go through this before. They fight and fight for so long, refusing valiantly to give up, and then, when they’re told it’s just no use and there’s nothing more to be done other than let go…that’s when they find their peace. That is the sea of surrender I am floating in right now. It’s deep, and it’s only so long before I forget all about floating and let myself sink. Sink forever.

“Sloane?”

“Yeah?”

“I just thought you should know…

And then he says the two words I thought I’d never hear. Two words that splinter my heart.

“She’s alive.”

“Zeth! Zeth Wake up!” Something small and hard jabs me in the ribs. I flinch, instantly recoiling away from the contact. In the space of two seconds, I spin off the bed, grabbing hold of whoever was touching me, and raising my fist, ready to strike. I manage to stop it from coming down just in time—the person who was stupid enough to enter a room I’m sleeping in isn’t actually a person at all. It’s a broom handle. My knees are exploding with pain where I slammed down onto them when I rolled out of the bed, my heart charging like a furious piston.

It’s not him. It’s not him. You’re fine. Breathe.

I blink at the broom handle, trying to shut down the attack commands that are screaming inside my head.

“Zeth.”

The voice is solid. Calm. Firm. I look away from the pale wood now lying on the floor at my feet and find Lacey standing in the doorway, her worn, pink terry towel robe pulled tight around her body. It’s threadbare but the girl just won’t throw it out. Her skin is so pale that she looks like a damn ghost. She knows not to bother me if I’m in my room and the door’s closed—something must be up. The girl is smart. She knew to prod me in the side with something from a distance instead of approaching me on the bed. It’s rather undignified in the same vein, but then I’d rather suffer the indignity instead of hurting her.

I suddenly realize I’m naked. I always sleep naked. Straightening slowly from my defensive stance, I fix a questioning look on Lacey. “What’s up?” I clip out. She doesn’t blink at the fact that I’m as naked as the day I was born. She doesn’t blink at the fact that I attack people in my sleep, either. We know not to probe each other, to go digging in places we’re not welcome. She understands. She has her shit and I most definitely have mine.

“I can’t sleep. I don’t feel all that great,” Lace whispers. “Do we have any painkillers?”

When your housemate decides to kill herself, there are certain precautions you take when she comes home. Got codeine in your medicine cabinet? Paracetamol? Knives in your kitchen? Bleach under your kitchen sink? Yeah, I don’t. Not anymore. Not until I’m sure Lacey’s straight again.

I pad barefoot to my bedside table and grab the pack of Tylenol I keep there to take the edge off my hangovers. They can be fucking brutal depending on how hard I punish myself, or how bad the nightmares are. I pop two pills out of the blister pack and head for Lacey, offering them out in my hand. She rolls her eyes.

“Jeez, Zee, you’re being a retard.”

“You’re the retard.” I glare at her. She knows I haven’t forgiven her for the shit she pulled yet, but she hasn’t said she’s sorry. She never will. I’ll die holding my breath before that ever happens. I expect a part of her is actually waiting for me to say it: sorry, Lace. Sorry I dragged your ungrateful ass to the hospital yet again. Sorry for saving your life.

But you know what? Fuck that. She’s being a selfish bitch right now. I watch as she tosses the pills down her throat and swallows them dry. And then I cross a line.

“Why, Lace?”

She doesn’t bother pretending not to know what I’m asking her. All of those doctors at the hospital, each and every one of them, must have asked her the same question. She tucks her crazy hair behind her ear and tugs on the cuff of her robe. I’ve broken a secret accord between the two of us.

She knows, though. She knows she can’t brush me off. She knows she has to tell me something, be it all the truth or just half. She frowns, anger flickering in her eyes. “You know when you wake up in the middle of the night and your heart’s pounding? When the dream feels so real you can still feel and hear everything ringing in your ears, crawling across your skin? When you can even fucking close your eyes without being terrified?”

I remain still as marble, fiercely studying her. She knows I experience that on a nightly basis but I won’t admit it. Shit, no. I will never admit to being afraid again. Not ever.

Lacey accepts my silence. “Well I don’t feel that anymore, Zeth. I dream…and I wake up and I’m not...not scared anymore. I’ve accepted it. My body’s accepted it. There’s something very wrong with me,” she whispers. There’s a horror in her eyes that I understand all too well. Whatever happened to her, somewhere along the way her body has committed the darkest act of betrayal: it started enjoying it.

“Dying is the only thing I’m afraid of these days,” she breathes, “and I need to be afraid. I need to not feel like…like I do. I’d rather be dead.”